by submission | Dec 13, 2020 | Story |
Author: Leo James Topp
Out of my office window, the colony ship sits low in the sky. The Test of Time. Sleek and flat, a shimmer along its underbelly, the viewing deck’s dome sat on top… I should be working.
I know it’s a marketing technique, parking it over the city, just the right height for clouds to break around its hull.
On my workstation display, I pull up the tab I always have open.
SIGN UP TODAY!
ONLY 1051 PLACES LEFT!
751 PEOPLE LOOKING AT THIS PAGE RIGHT NOW!!!
Fingers hover over REGISTER NOW.
But what would I tell Ellen?
“Don’t look at that on your work machine, mate. HR’ll think you’re doing a runner without notice!”
Swivel my chair round. A smile stretches up one side of Gary’s face.
“Just a bit of research, mate, keep on top of the market. Commercial awareness.”
“Can you imagine though?” He says, “One way ticket, some barely terraformed tundra, trying to scratch out a living from GM crops they won’t even approve for disaster relief. No thanks!”
“I guess people think if you’re scratching out a living, at least you’re creating something from scratch,” I want to stay.
What I actually say is: “I know, right? Sounds grim.”
He wanders off to the coffee machine. I close the tab, reveal the desktop background.
ANDERSON RECYCLING TECHNOLOGIES
KEEPING EARTH LIVABLE
My phone lies face up on the desk. One quick call to Ellen, get her to set me straight.
But what if she does set me straight?
Or what if she backs the idea, then I have to go?
It would be flipping a coin to see if I was disappointed with the result.
It would be making someone else responsible for my decision.
I should stay. Could I really leave?
I pull up a tax return, but suddenly the idea of another form, another calculation, another word, starts a vibration in my head, ringing in my ears. I can’t hold the words and the numbers together. The insides of my eyelids dance with floaters.
Another day, another week, another year of this.
The Test of Time. Bulky cargo carriers scud back and forth across the sky, merging in and out of traffic, up to the ship’s hold.
On the balconies and roof terraces of surrounding buildings, tiny figures lean against railings, cocktail glasses or coffee cups or cigarettes in hand, looking out towards the ship.
Smooth chrome delta, hundreds of metres across, a thousand metres up. Birds drift along its length.
I open my work messages (27 unread), hit AUTOREPLY.
“I am currently out of the office and…”
Delete.
“Thank you for your message. Please note that I have now left the company and your message…”
Delete.
The sun glimmers on the Test of Time’s hull.
897 PLACES LEFT!
SIGN UP NOW!
LAST CHANCE!!!
“I’ve left this crappy planet behind now. All we do here is re-use the same old rubbish over and over until we die. You should come along…”
Delete.
“As long as I can remember, I’ve looked up at the stars and seen space to make something from the ground up, space to make something fresh. Space to make something of myself.
Life has never been bad on this planet, and I hope you continue to enjoy life here on a world that has already been built. I’ve decided I want life to be good or bad or both, but never not-bad.
Please note that I will not be returning. My messages will not be monitored in my absence.
Goodbye.”
by submission | Dec 12, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
Her eyes are a blue million miles
-Captain Beefheart
It was October. The hickory leaves were yellow and smoke emerged from the woods. She was a woman and she was a girl and I was sure we had met before, walking this shoreline. I didn’t know the sound of her voice so I would speak to her.
Albemarle Lake is shallow but in dream I would dive down and discover an abyss. I would skin dive and sprout gills because there was a God in that lake and she/he/they insisted I touch bottom, possess enough air to reach my destination.
The deeper I dove the louder it became.
Waking, a drum would pound, a bass drum. It was like I was marching in the second line of a Crescent City funeral, sashaying past marble graves planted above ground to prevent their decay. The lake nearby might join the great river and spread its fingers beneath the soil, lifting water towards the sky to swallow the city whole . . . letting the cadavers escape.
Albemarle Lake has no mouth. It is a single eye, an iris that no one save a pilot or shaman could spy. They would have to skirt the upper atmosphere, look down on the teary vale to see.
The drum steadily pounded and my temples vibrated like skin beneath a mallet. It was a heart I was hearing; from the bottom of the lake it was beating. The same lake -Albemarle- where the woman/girl would walk, hickory leaves falling to her shoulders.
I found a heart at the bottom. But not just one, there were many. The entire abyssal plain was a wreckage of ventricles and valves, each pierced with inanimate fragments from the surface. It was a landscape of the Titanic . . . arteries clogged with candelabras, sterling silver forks, and the jewels of a dame’s décolletage.
I tried to lift the hearts, but they were heavier than stone. They were cold as a glacial spring but still they beat. Then I heard the woman/girl’s liquid voice. “My name is M,” it said. “I want to talk to you.”
I swam toward the surface with the knowledge of what beat at my brain. And I would tell her. This was to be an important day.
But there was no surface. There was no sun and no October sky draped across the water. I was not in a lake but swimming through M’s eye. A dark core floated before me, obscuring the light. It was her pupil. What I took for fishing poles and nylon lines were her eyelashes.
When at last I could make the shores of the true lake, the actual Albemarle spreading out beyond the murk, I knew I was within her vision. I was a speck at the centre of what she saw, my form projected toward looming western mountains with their hints of black bears and bearded armies.
I was in M’s eye and there I would remain until she decided to cry. But for now, her blood would feed me memories I had assumed were mine.
by submission | Dec 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Connor Long-Johnson
It drifted there alone, on the precipice of the infinite abyss of space. The shiny, metallic surface beginning to melt as it moved ever closer to the nearest star. The blinding light of the sun reflected off of its red and white casing.
“Honestly, some people,” she said, slurping on a cup of EcoCoffee and staring out at the solitary soda can, “they think the hyperlanes are their own personal dumping ground.”
“You know how people are,” he replied, preparing the ship for their jump to the Lagoon Nebula, “anyways, just be thankful you already have family out here.”
“I guess so, I suppose we owe Aunt Natalie a lot.”
He entered the coordinates into the log, pumped the engine’s fusion primer, and informed the nearby control outpost of their imminent departure.
“I just don’t get how we can be so ignorant!” She grasped her coffee tighter in her hands, “We’ve lost half of the Earth to the oceans, most of its species to deforestation or hunting and we have been forced out here to find a home somewhere else. It just beggar’s belief! London, New York, and Amsterdam all gone. We’ve lost so much in the past hundred years and what do we do? Bring all of our most detestable habits out here with us, like some rancid smell, following us across the stars.”
He answered her with silence as he made the final checks for the jump, focusing on the command computer. Despite being almost 40 years old, the Hyperjump technology wasn’t without its hitches. One tiny, seemingly insignificant error, one wrong number punched into the ship’s navigator and you were tomorrow’s grisly headline on the daily feed. He knew that all to well, he had written many of them himself in his time working for the Journalist’s Alliance.
But deep down, he knew what she was saying was right. Just one month ago, his colleague and a team of scientists working for the Earth Science Quarterly had found evidence of Microplastics on Io, one of Jupiter’s several moons, and the researchers pointed out that all indications were that their presence was human in origin, with Mankind moving more and more across the stars, they had noted how Jupiter’s population had expanded by some eighty-million in the last two years alone and was now the third most populated planet in the galaxy.
“I don’t think it’s as bad as you’re saying though.”
She exhaled heavily, “You’re hopelessly naïve, you know that? Ever since we crawled out of the oceans we’ve caused havoc; it didn’t end on Earth and it sure as shit won’t end out here.”
The ship jolted violently, and the girl shrieked. “What the Hell?
Her coffee had fallen from her hands with the violent motion of the ship and had now spilt out over her trousers.
“Shit. I am sorry, it was the primer.” He said gesturing apologetically at the console.
“Well, you should really get that checked out!”
She picked up the cup, wet and dripping. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”
“You could always throw it out, in their infinite wisdom, the makers haven’t installed any disposal units in these things yet.” He sighed and gestured again at the front panel, resigned.
“No way, there’s enough junk in the galaxy, it doesn’t need any more from me.”
“Fine, you can hold onto it then until we reach the Lagoon. The journey should take about ten hours.”
Then, the most minor of inconveniences occurred.
As her hands stayed wrapped around the empty cup she felt the stickiness grow under her fingers as the moisture dried and what little liquid remained began morphing into a bothersome irritant.
She bowed her head and kicked the seat in frustration. Rolling down the window, she threw out the empty gesture that was the EcoCoffee, the momentum carried it across the vast abyss until it stopped next to the can.
The can, once alone and now part of a pair and the first in a human waste tsunami about to wash over the galaxy.
by submission | Dec 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: Greg Roensch
The transport came in for a bumpy landing on Hos as the twin moons rose on the horizon. A medical technician by trade, Rael-6 had known this journey would come one day, though he worked hard to put it off. “It’s just normal aches and pains,” he’d say to anyone who asked about his condition. But those aches and pains had become worse, and, after a long consultation with Dr. Boethius, Rael-6 was forced to book his flight to the hospice planet.
“Seven hundred and fifty years is a good life,” the admitting nurse remarked while checking his vital signs.
“Seven hundred and fifty-three to be exact,” Rael-6 replied.
“A good, long life,” the nurse said and smiled.
Rael-6 was soon sleeping and didn’t stir until hearing a familiar voice whisper his name.
“Good morning,” said Dr. Boethius. “How do you feel?”
“Old,” Rael-6 answered. “How much more time do I have?”
“It’s hard to say,” the doctor answered. “We don’t have a blueprint for these things.”
“I see.” Rael-6 settled back in his bed.
“Can I get you anything?” the doctor asked.
“No, thank you, doctor. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens next.”
“That’s the best approach.” Dr. Boethius patted Rael-6’s shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to request more Doxa if you need it.”
“Understood.”
When Dr. Boethius returned three days later, Rael-6 was noticeably weaker. His skin was drawn tight over his entire body. And, as expected, there were large gashes on his torso.
“It won’t be long now,” the doctor said and administered a heavy dose of painkiller.
Rael-6 shut his eyes, a smile forming on his cracked lips.
Later that night, as Dr. Boethius was catching up on paperwork, a nurse hurried into his office. “It’s Rael-6,” she said. “It’s time.”
“Keep him sedated,” the doctor ordered. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” The nurse telepathically administered more Doxa.
Rael-6 felt a warmth in his veins and was soon dreaming about being back home at his dining room table, sipping spice tea, and telling the doctor about a child he’d fathered while stationed on a mining ship in the Quadrillion galaxy.
“I begged her to stay with me,” Rael-6 explained, “but she was committed to her career in deep space. I found out later that she and the child died in the Second Great Mining War.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor said.
“I wouldn’t have to do this alone if they had come with me.” Rael-6 wiped a tear from his cheek.
“You’re not alone,” the doctor replied.
Rael-6 never woke from the dream. The hospice staff made sure of that as his tight, yellow skin, now covered in gashes, began to fall to the floor.
“Keep him fully sedated,” Dr. Boethius ordered and peeled away a layer of skin.
A moan from the patient caused the doctor to glare at the nurse. “Fully sedated, I said.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rael-6 didn’t make another sound as the doctor tore away more skin.
Ten days later, Dr. Boethius returned to find a new, young patient sitting up in bed.
“How do you feel?” the doctor asked.
“Like a million Napanthian crystals,” answered the patient. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“Just routine maintenance,” Dr. Boethius assured him.
All is in order now, thought the doctor. Rael-6 is gone. In his place lay Rael-7, a fully rejuvenated Class-3Z model ready for deployment. This shell should last another 753 years, the doctor noted before prodding the patient’s skin and checking his vitals one last time.
by submission | Dec 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lily Shen
Zayla lies down in bed beneath her blankets. Her plush down comforter feels like a warm bath. She listens to the soothing voice on her cell phone, guiding her meditation.
The soft, furry darkness envelops her like a cocoon.
Just let go, Zayla says to herself as she breathes in, and tries to silence her thoughts. Her judgments of each moment slip through her fingers. She imagines a warm, yellow healing light around her, as comforting as a feathery blanket.
Suddenly, Zayla is floating in utero, drifting inside her oceanic sac. She stares at her pink, translucent hands. They have not yet been wounded with purple bruises or bled with smarting, red cuts. Zayla has not yet laughed or cried.
Zayla drowns deeper and deeper until she opens her eyes again. She looks down at her hands, and they look as if they have been dipped in silver. Yet she can flex her fingers easily. The mirror-like gloves on her hands are light and yielding as a whisper. Zayla’s reflection on the back of her hand gazes back at her. She has a smooth, dusky-skinned face and tawny, orange eyes with velvety, dark lashes. Zayla smiles at herself, pleased with her face. Her hair is wrapped in a gold turban, which makes her orange eyes even more fiery. Zayla is wearing a thin white tunic that reaches the floor. She lifts up the hem of the tunic to reveal silvery, reflective boots. She saunters over the soft, baby blue carpet and opens a door. Moss green rocks fill the landscape, and she smells a burning stench. Zayla slams the door shut.
Where is everyone? Zayla pads down the carpeted stairs. There is a room full of people wearing gold turbans and white tunics like herself. They are sitting in rows of silver chairs with their eyes closed. There is no urgency to go anywhere, and not a computer or cell phone in sight. Perhaps the brain and technology have melded into one. Zayla cannot tell if they are sleeping or being endlessly entertained.
She opens her mouth to speak.
“What is today’s date?”
Slowly, a bearded man turns his head and looks at her with sad, purple eyes. Suddenly, December 3, 2205, flashes before her face, and then disappears.
Today is the day, not tomorrow! I must find David and warn him to leave before this pod is invaded, Zayla tells herself.
She looks frantically at the rows of drowsy faces. Darting around the room, Zayla finally sees David’s slumped face in the back row. She shakes him awake and points at the door. He stands up from his seat.
The room goes dark, and a tornado swirls around Zayla. Her body is twisting around and around with nothing to grasp for safety. She braces for a sickening painful impact and then dark oblivion. When she crashes through a wall, she screams.
Silence.
Zayla slowly opens her eyes. She is back on her bed lying down. Turning her head on the pillow, Zayla spots her cell phone on the table next to her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she takes several deep breaths, trying to slow her hammering heart.
“David, I hope you had enough time,” rasps Zayla.
She peers at the glimmering screen of her cell phone and reaches for it.
